Little Soldier Boy
by Unwillfully-Indescribebable
Summary: He was obviously the smallest Guardian lined up that night, and he stood there obviously nervous and regretting many times over deciding to sign up for this.


**Edited: 7/28/12**

****I wrote the original one a week ago when it was late at night in the span of about 30 minutes with the only editing being spellcheck while freaking out over a camp, so it sucked. This one is... slightly better, I hope.

* * *

When the guardians stood in line, waiting, standing entirely still, each one stony faced but obviously anxious inside their minds, he was easy to notice due to the fact that he was entirely failing at looking emotionless.

His name was Sander, and he must have stood at least four inches shorter that than the shortest guardian, his armor was very obviously just the slightest bit too big. Most of all, though, he stood there fidgeting anxiously, shifting his weight from foot to foot, twitching his fingers. That was as much as he could do to stop from bursting into tears or screaming, and neither or those were things he wanted to do. He didn't want to make a name for himself like that on his first fight; besides, he'd only get scolded because he was providing a large distraction for the others. He'd never forget that.

Not that he'd have long to remember it.

No, because looking at those trees that looked ominous for absolutely no reason, he realized his incredibly slim chances of getting out of this fight alive. If he had gone through the regular amount of training and was of age to even be a guardian? Maybe then he'd more of a chance. But now, he was young, he was inexperienced, he wasn't strong, and wasn't even sure he could _kill._

Sander knew he would die in war- or, rather, he'd always known he'd rather die in war than anywhere else. He had made up his mind about that years ago. Ever since his father returned home as a pile of ashes just like so many others who had fought, he had known. He didn't want to die slowly of some sort of illness or die peacefully of old age in his sleep.

Not that Sander wanted to die at all.

But he figured death wasn't something worth dreading.

Even if dying at his young age in a war he didn't really even want to fight in seemed terrible.

A war he really didn't want to fight because, simply, he wasn't _ready_. Just because he was Daddy's Little Soldier Boy who wanted to die in battle didn't mean he wanted to fight this early.

So what if he had to lie about his age because Mama was out of money and food and they could barely support themselves?

Even if their situation would have been avoided, he would have ended up here somehow. Not necessarily here, standing near that forest, waiting for Wargoth's troops, but on a battlefield somewhere, sometime, fighting for Lore. The expectation had been placed on Sander since he was young. His father was a Guardian, and a good one at that. No one fought better than Guardian Ransey, so his son must be just as good, mustn't he?

Not really.

The wait was killing him. He could feel himself going insane already. It was his mind's fault: the way he pictured grotesque creatures of fire that would have given him nightmares when he was younger, the way he planned his own death many times over. Even if the night had a slight chill, he could feel the beads of sweat on his brow. Sander was having even more trouble standing still than before.

_It will only get worse._

Without anything else to do, he found himself whispering a prayer, which surprised him. His mother had been religious, even if she never told him what she was praying to. Her prayers, which she gave every night, sitting on the edge of her bed, sometimes wrapped in her husband's old coat, always seemed to give her comfort, so, he reasoned, why not try it?

"_My great God, forgive me for the wrongs I've done and save me for this night, and protect me from the evil..."_

"_They're coming!" _someone yelled, and Sander was yanked from his prayer, feeling absolutely no different than before. His hand found his sword, gripping it so tightly he imagined his knuckles must be white. His legs were trembling.

Guardian Myra stepped forward then, her face painted with an expression of bravery and defiance, no hint of fear or doubt on her face.

"They're almost upon us, and my advice for all of you is this: Remember who you _are_. Remember what we're fighting. The outcome of this war may decide the fate of not only Lore, but other worlds, so we _cannot _fail. It won't be easy, and it won't be fast, but I have the utmost trust in all of you. BATTLE ON!"

All of her speech seemed far away, and none of the words seemed make any sense to Sander. He felt deeply sick, and ended up biting his tongue, trying to keep his dinner from coming back up.

"Be brave," he whispered to himself. "You can do that."

He was taken aback at first when the waves broke the trees. Sander had been expecting mostly imps, or ashen squires, or maybe some kilhoh and flamedances. True, all of them were there. But they were not the majority of the waves.

No, most of what he saw were Atealans. Except they weren't normal, because their hair seemed to be made of fire and their eyes blazed orange, and there was something jerky about the way they moved. Most of what Sander had heard about Wargoth came from muttered whispers among his mother's friends, but there was one main, frightening thing that he remembered the most: the fact that he could possess basically anyone, including an Avatar.

The swords of doubt pierced his mind again. Could he do this? Could he _really _kill these aliens that looked so… human?

He didn't have time to think about this, though, because someone behind him pushed him forward as he realized he was the only guardian still standing. The rest had run towards the armies. He'd been too wrapped up in his own thoughts to move.

As he ran, he saw a Cryptic appear in front of him, and he ducked to try to avoid her, only to feel something vaguely sharp piercing him. He yelped and managed to turn enough to see the Cryptic behind him, except for the fact that it couldn't have moved that fast. He felt something else prod him, but the Cryptic had no weapons and there was nothing around.

She was messing with him, somehow. The pain was only in his mind. That was the only explanation. He blocked out what felt like another blow and shifted his weight forward, swinging his sword… and somehow managed to land a hit. The momentary shock from the Cryptic gave him time enough to make a better swing, and this time he caught it somewhere around the neck, and swept his foot across her legs, knocking her off balance.

But instead of falling, like he expected her to, the Cryptic seemed to shatter into hundreds of crystals.

He didn't have as much time as he wanted to to contemplate this, though, because a flare imp came up behind him. He vaguely felt the flames before they reached him, and he managed to roll gracelessly out of the way at just the right time. Not quite soon enough, though, because he felt the burn spreading on his arm, but it wasn't fatal, even if it hurt a lot.

As he collected himself and found his balance again, Sander realized just how outnumbered they were. There were so many of Wargoth's minions around them if felt overwhelming and the numbers nearly drowned out that far-flung hope that everyone clung to so desperately. The forest around them was burning, and there were battles being fought all around him, and although they escaped his eyes, there were people dying out there for sure. And, for some reason, al that Sander could think of was how, somehow, he was _not one of them._

He managed to stay alive, and that was all that could be given to him. He wasn't fighting with the seasoned grace and strength his father had, and his trainers would have scoffed at some of the moves he made. But, out here, that didn't _matter_. In the heat of a battle, the only important thing was life, and how yours was so much more important than the enemy at hand. He wasn't mentally running through the forms he'd learned; he was impulsively moving himself in the way that his brain thought increased his chances of survival the most.

Eventually, though, he realized there was nothing around him. There was nothing to fight. He lowered his sword and, just for a moment, let reasoning take over.

He was surrounded.

There were more of them than he could count surrounding him and a few other guardians. More than they could fight off.

He realized this was it. He'd die here, right now, not with a fight but with a total defeat.

Or… not.

Sander remembered that they were in a forest, of course. There were trees surrounding him. As a child, he'd been an avid climber. He still _was_.

He glanced over. The tree next to him seemed sturdy enough, so after a quick look at the hoard around him, he placed his hands and feet on the trunk and pulled himself upwards as fast as possible. It was difficult with the added weight of his armor, but manageable.

By the time they actually started fighting, he was clear of the enemies.

He climbed just a bit higher, and then hugged the trunk as tightly as possible, balancing on a branch. He prayed that this was enough, and that he was safe.

He wasn't.

But the tree provided a sense of false security, so when Sander was hit dead-on with a fireball from some creature that he never got a glimpse of, he didn't see it coming. Why should he have? He'd shoved those stifling worries into a dark recess of his mind where they didn't bother him.

He didn't realize it when the thing hit him with enough force to throw him out of the tree. He didn't even realize anything had happened until he came to notice that he was lying on the ground, ears ringing, with a huge amount of pain throughout his entire body. He tried to force himself up, to at least try to fight, but the way his head spun and vision blurred told him that he shouldn't even try it.

At least the group had mostly moved on.

He knew he had to at least get away from the burning tree, so he crawled as far as possible in the general direction of the tent where he knew they had healers. He knew he'd never make it, but he didn't really want to lay there and accept defeat.

Eventually, his body just sort of gave out, so he lay there, and he decided he'd wait for either something to come along and finish him off, or his injuries to kill him. Neither one seemed particularly great, but it was all he could do now.

Suddenly, dying in battle didn't seem so glamorous.

But it wasn't like there was anything he could do now.

His potions had shattered with his fall. If he really squinted, he could see the pools of red and blue liquids that were so precious. He would try to call for help, but he didn't know how well his voice would carry, and he doubted he could speak loud enough to make a difference anyway. He didn't know where his sword was; he'd lost track of it when he was hit with the fireball.

Even if he still had it, he doubted he'd be able to do it.

"_My great god, forgive me for the wrongs I've done and save me for this night, and protect me from the evil around me, and bless the family that raised me, and sanctify the dead that rest, and accept my thanks and retribution..."_

Sander felt an arm on his shoulder.

He turned his head as much as he could, and relief flooded through his entire being. He had, for some reason, expected to see an enemy there. Instead, there was another guardian that Sander had never met before.

"You're alive," he said, almost sounding a bit surprised. He took a moment to collect himself, and then said, "Come on. I can try to help you get to the tent. There are healers there. You'll be okay." There was almost an air of hopelessness to the man's words. As if he wanted to believe his words, but couldn't quite bring himself to.

Sander couldn't blame him. Even if the forest ahead was emptier than what was behind them, it was still spattered with monsters. He had vaguely noticed the faint limp the man already carried, and Sander was hardly in any shape to be walking. They'd be a wide open target, two slow fighters with maybe one sword between them.

Still, he found himself growing hopeful. Even if the chance of them making it out was limited, there was still a possibility of survival.

He ended up having his arm slung around the guardian's neck with the guardian's arm wrapped around his waist. This supported him enough for him to walk, even if the pace was tantalizingly slow.

But, of course, even if he knew that the little speck of hope he held was meaningless, he didn't not expect what happen next.

The few people around them would agree, and that was the complete truth. The Riftwalker that crept up on them must have been a master, because she materialized behind them in seconds from an unknown location. Even if the two of them had been in a decent condition, they most likely wouldn't have heard her.

Her blade seemed to cut straight through the hand that was wrapped around Sander's waist and sent him entirely off balance, sending him to the ground. His burnt back slammed against the ground, sending a cry from his throat.

He saw perfectly what happened next.

How the Riftwalker moved with every slash of her sword.

How the guardian's eye was wide with absolute terror but filled with a complete understanding of what was going to happen.

How there was still blood flowing from his wounds as he fell.

How the Riftwalker seemed to nearly smile.

How he was dead before he hit the ground.

She was over Sander in an instant, her blade slicing through his skin. The cut was deep, and long, and he saw the blood immediately. This time, he didn't even bother with hope. There was no way he was going anywhere this time.

He lay back and tried to accept his fate as much as possible.

Was he proud, his father? Was he glad that his son took after him so well? Or…

Or was he upset that his only son took after him into the career that had utterly broken him in his last years of life and left his wife now utterly alone?

Sander hadn't noticed the way his father acted that last year. He'd always written it away as stress, or tiredness, or a longing to leave the little village they lived in. Now he understood that it was all of them and more.

The night after he'd come home, Sander had been having a hard time sleeping, so, like all children, he'd sought out his parents.

When he'd found them, they were sitting on the edge of their bed, his mother's arms wrapped around his father as he leaned over and, as much as Sander couldn't believe it at the time, cried.

No one had told him that his father's entire troop perished in the war.

"_My great God, forgive me for the wrongs I've done and save me for this night, and protect me from the evil around me, and bless the family that raised me, and sanctify the dead that rest, and accept my thanks and retribution for this sinful life I've lived, and send great things to those who have helped me in my life, and let my passage be peaceful and painless so I experience the greatest adventure with as little pain as possible. Thank you._"

His head was spinning.

The stars weren't as bright as they had been.

He could barely even see them anymore.

The burns were getting less painful.

He couldn't remember where his wound was anymore.

The sounds of conflict around him faded into nothingness.

_Mama, Daddy, it seems your little soldier boy isn't coming home._


End file.
